Memories From Before
by gethTECH
Summary: A look into the past that Jarvan IV and Garen shared together. Fluff, Jarvan/Garen, lore-friendly.


J4/Garen Fluff

When they were young, they would ride horses together. They challenged each other to races and fake jousts and other displays of superiority. No matter who emerged victorious, they would both return to each others' sides with smiles plastered onto their faces. They trained together every day and seemed to make everything a competition. If Garen one the match, Jarvan had to run two laps around the entire castle grounds. If he met defeat at the end of Jarvan's lance, it was two hundred push-ups in two minutes. Never wanting to lose and endure such punishments, their friendly spars would last for hours. They clashed to the point of exhaustion, or until someone came over to them and called it a tie. Very often, there was no winner. A Demacian never accepts defeat, after all- but ties are fine.

Garen shared the same dream as almost all little Demacian children had- he wanted to grow up strong and proud and serve his country as a noble man at arms. Jarvan wanted the same, but was restricted from combat training until he was much older. They didn't want any unnecessary harm to come to the next king of Demacia. So Garen would visit Jarvan whenever he could and teach him everything he learned from training with Demacia's next batch of soldiers. When Jarvan was permitted to join the force, he quickly became a steeled warrior, albeit with a bit of an ego.

When Garen was picked to join the Dauntless Vanguard, he and Jarvan celebrated together. Jarvan stole some of the wine from his father's vast collection to properly celebrate what he called "You finally growing up and growing a pair!". Being their first experience with alcohol, both of the young men had a rough morning after. Jarvan woke up with his head in Garen's lap clutching an empty bottle of wine to his chest.

Jarvan and Garen were always side by side during battle. They flowed like a river through battle, carving through Noxians and hardly denting their armor. Eventually they made sport out of this, as well, racking up body counts and comparing them. Loser had to go against a Noxian platoon bare-handed. Of course, the totals were always equal.

The one time they were separated on the battlefield was on the day that changed Jarvan's life. Outmaneuvered by Noxian forces, the prince was captured and almost killed by Noxus' pride executioner, Urgot. After that day, after Garen and his Dauntless Vanguard rescued him, he never treated combat as a game again. It wasn't a friendly competition between friends; it was real and not something that should be taken lightly. Being defeated in such a manner shook Jarvan to his core. One day, he put together an elite force of soldiers to venture out and find what he called his "atonement". They were to leave in a week's time.

On the day he was set to leave Jarvan met with Garen with what may have well been the final time. Garen begged to come with him, but Jarvan refused. He was leaving the safety of Demacia in Garen's hands, because he knew he wouldn't fail. The prince's eyes overflowed with trust and Garen knew then it was his duty to protect not his prince's kingdom, but his dearest friend's home. As Jarvan turned to depart, Garen grabbed his shoulder and turned him around. As this may well be the last time they see eachother, Garen left all boundaries behind and pressed his lips against his prince's in a kiss too gentle to be shared between battle-hardened warriors.

When he pulled away Garen swore he saw the beginnings of tears in Jarvan's eyes, but he played it off as a trick of the light. Words were not exhanged; they didn't need to be. Jarvan embraced his companion. His armor felt like a claustrophobic shell keeping him away from where part of him wanted to be. But that part of him was selfish, and dwarfed by his sense of self and pride. He rode off later that morning.

After the first year of no contact, Garen began to mourn. Not in public, of course. In between reports and meetings and battles, he would allow his head to fall into his hands. During those reports and meetings and battles, his prince's name was always at the back of his mind. After the second year had come to pass and he still hadn't returned, the sadness Garen had thought private for so long overflowed onto the city streets. The palace was covered by a veil of misery and panic. Who would take the throne with the heir missing, or worse? Some pointed fingers at Garen, others at Xin Zhao, the Lightshield's right hand. Garen didn't frequent the palace as much as he used to after that. He lost his dearest friend, but all they cared about was finding a replacement. It made him angry, to put it lightly.

Demacia was a somber city-state for weeks after; so the blaring of trumpets and the sound of horses in a procession entering the gate was a jarring and exciting event. Garen went to see what all the fuss was about, and his stoic facade almost snapped when he saw Jarvan atop the same horse he rode off on two years ago.

The young, charismatic prince held a stare colder than ice as he rode in. He had been gone two years but seemed to have aged ten. His hair was long, his chin rugged and unshaven, and his once vibrant blue eyes seemed to have clouded over. If Garen remembered right, Jarvan had left with twelve men- only two rode behind him. Demacia sprang to life once again, and while Garen wanted to do the same, he felt strangely empty at his friend's return.

He didn't attend the celebratory feast the King was holding; he sent his sister along instead. There was no room in his empty stomach for food. Garen must have sat there for hours at the foot of his bed, staring at his hands, contemplating. He wanted to see Jarvan again, but couldn't bring himself to actively seek him out, out of fear that it was all just a clever illusion. Even if it wasn't, those eyes weren't the same as he remembered. Garen could hardly imagine what such a haughty man like Jarvan had to see to sharpen his gaze that much.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, but he didn't move to answer it. The knocking continued, but he was still frozen. After a few moments of silence the door opened and Garen was finally torn from his daze.

Jarvan stood in the doorway. He was freshly shaven and bathed, dressed not in armor but in a familiar royal garment with the Lightshield crest embroidered into the shirt. Neither man smiled, nor made any further move for what could have well been an eternity. Eternity was over in a few seconds when Jarvan broke the air with a forced smile. Crow's feet wrinkled the skin around his tired eyes.

"Hello again, friend." Jarvan's voice was rough and worn down, like a blade scraped blunt against a stone. Garen rose from his bed but didn't approach Jarvan, still too stunned that he was actually alive. His amber eyes blinked slowly, as if adjusting to a bright light. "You're...alive."

"Of course. You think I'd die anywhere else but on the battlefield?" Beneath the calloused exterior Jarvan had built up he was still the same confident, charismatic young man that Garen had grown up with and spent his entire life beside. With a deep breath, Garen allowed himself a moment of weakness and rushed forward to embrace his long-lost friend, releasing years of tension with one long sigh against the other man's shoulder.

"Fool. You really should have written." Garen mumbled, closing his eyes when he felt Jarvan's arms around him. The prince's laugh moved both of their bodies. "My apologies, postmen are rare on Mount Targon."

Garen pulled away, his hands still nestled in the small of Jarvan's back. Up close, signs of early age were much more noticable; the crow's feet didn't go away when his face was relaxed, his forehead looked permanently furrowed, and his eyes were hardly looking back at Garen. It felt like they looked right through him. Just thinking about that made Garen look away. "What?" Jarvan looked away with him, not in a mocking manner but a genuine curiosity. Garen shook his head. "It's nothing, sir."

"Sir? Pfft, I'd hoped you'd gotten over calling me that while I was gone." Jarvan's tone was cheerful and his lips split into a smile, but the rest of his face was still rigid. One of his hands took Garen's jawline and guided him back so they were looking at eachother again. Jarvan's lips were blistered and rough, foreign and familiar to Garen all at the same time. The prince's eyes were closed and Garen took that brief moment to look at his face once more, innocent and friendly and egotistical and crass and young. Eventually Garen reasoned himself into closing his eyes as well, telling himself that it was still Jarvan, and no matter what he'd seen or done nothing, not even time, could ever change the bold young prince he had fallen in love with.

- fin

This is probably going to end up as a series of fluffy Garen/J4 oneshots that might all be loosely connected. If people like it, of course. Thanks for reading!


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